


Four Fics

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Random & Short, take one of these as a writing prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-02 20:02:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11516427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: 4 Fics at various stages of incompleteness.1) Star Trek Voyager/ BBC Sherlock2) BBC Sherlock Dystopia ( Sherlock is blind, John is deaf)3) Empathy and Aura's4) 3 Garridebs scenarioAs ever you are free to take any one of these and complete them yourself seeing as I won't be finishing them.





	Four Fics

Sherlock BBC/Star Trek Voyager  
Don't judge me.  
John- Ensign- took most of a medical degree, but took a break from his studies to serve as security personal on voyager   
SHerlock-Crewman- Marquis bc starfleet wouldn't let him study a thing in the marquis war-zone due to safety. Took 2 yrs at starfleet academy but mycroft got annoying.

Ages J-30 S-28

 

Star Date 48532.9

This is the first attempt at a personal log, as I am accustomed to producing personnel logs I find it difficult to express myself in a more conversational manner, it is really weird knowing that no superior officer will be reviewing these logs, so if this series comes off a bit 'Vulcany' it's because old habits are hard to break.

Deep space is boring on the best of days, and deadly on the worst. I hadn't minded the Deep Space Nine station with it's friendly crew and the occasional confrontation we were called to control. Had I known that I would soon be stuck on a starship half the size of a Galaxy Class ship for 75 years, I would have resigned from my station. Unfortunalty there were no ---- on board so the future came as a shock to us. A literal shock that killed several of the highest ranking officers and all of the medical crew. Our precarious situation was made worse by the integration of the rebel Marquis crew into our own ranks.

I do not claim that Starfleet and the federation are flawless, but I do not see rebel violence against the federation as being productive. The Marquis crew members are outlaws and murderers and so I was not surprised at the rise in calls for security that occurred soon after the combination of crews. It would have been impossible to leave them stranded in their small ship in the Delta Quadrant a despairing 75 year long trip from earth-but the spacial anomaly that forced us here also brought them, and we make uneasy bedfellows. 

I suppose I am recording this private log as a record of my life aboard Voyager so that my family will know the truth of what occurred in that gas cloud. I really hope Harry is still alive, but I will be over 100 years old if we return to Earth and with limited medical care onboard I may not be capable of making it back. Before I left Deep Space Nine I received a transmission which informed me of Harry's pregnancy, I was thrilled, Harry had been through so much but ever since she and Clara patched things up Harry has been happier. I can only assume that in the case of Harry's death the recipient of these logs will be her child who may or may not have a passing interest in the life of the uncle who was never in their life. 

 

Star date 48540.8

Hello...no.ummm Dear Diary? no. Dear Harry's child? no. John H.Watson's personal log star date 48540.8? Yes that's better. 

Personal Log, star date 48540.  
I had been worried that I would have nothing to talk about in this log other then some rather lackluster stories about how I spent an entire shift reattaching a wall panel, but instead I have something more interesting. I seem to have made a new acquaintance. 

I have been working as a security ensign for over a year now. I had taken my pre-med courses and had just graduated from Starfleet basic training, when Harry commed me to say that she needed help. I knew she needed to go to rehab, and even though a portion of that is covered by federal aid, it wasn't enough and I withdrew my application to Starfleet medical inorder to find a job which would fund Harry's recovery from alcohol addiction. Harry and I have never gotten along, but we have always been there for each other, and I could not abandon her especially when she finally admitted she had a problem. That evening I was grabbing a coffee from the communal area replicator when I bumped into Professor Newman who had taken a special liking to me in my Federation species biology course, I must have impressed her with my ability to stay awake while everyone else was audibly snoring. She asked if I would be taking her course on 'Vulcan surgery' and I told her of my withdrawal. Her concern lead me to explaining all about Harry, and 2 coffee's later we agreed that my idea of abandoning Starfleet was stupid and that her idea of pushing me through a security personnel training course and getting me a position on a station would be a better solution. It had not occurred to me that this was a plausible option, and I hesitated when I realized I would have to take a 30 day course, but Professor Newman brushed my concerns away and told me she would pull some strings. 

I did not realize that by 'pull some strings' she meant giving me a 6 month advance on my salary and a guaranteed position on Deep Space Nine. Starfleet does not skimp on paying it's employees, and so in less then a couple of days I had the funds to put Harry in the best rehabilitation center on the continent and a job on an outpost far enough away to minimize any arguments we would otherwise have had.

Of course my posting on DS9 lead to me replacing an injured Voyager ensign named Stamford--and here I am, a literal lifetime away from Earth. At least Harry can't pick fights with a man she believes to be dead. Anyways this all brings me back to the Crewman I met earlier today.

I began Alpha shift as-per-usual and nothing of interest occurred and we were assigned to some minor repairs on a lower deck. Voyager has been low on personnel and so where as I would usually be standing guard our squad was assigned installing more shelves for the plants Kes is growing to help increase our food supply as replicator rations are in effect. 

About half way through my shift we received a distress call from Deck 10 room 22, and off we ran only to discover that Crewman Holmes had only been testing our response time. Kelliandra and Rick both glared furiously and quickly marched out of the room swearing that the Captain would hear about 'one of the damnable Marquis mocking Starfleet personnel' I too was angry at this absurd waste of time, but as I turned to follow my two co-workers Crewman Holmes turned his attention to me and said:

“You should apply to be Jr. medical personnel, you'll like it better and it's far more interesting.”

I stared and asked “Why would I do that?”

Holmes replied saying that I clearly had the training and the interest, so I shouldn't waste my time with the 'numbskulls' in security but instead work towards that medical degree I so clearly wanted.

I have paraphrased his rather long and detailed speech about how well I was suited to the position and how the emergency holographic doctor would need an assistant seeing as the human doctor had been killed and the holographic replacement would be unable to leave the medical bay. I was too stunned to ask how he knew of my previous education, and before I knew it Crewman Holmes had pushed me into Sick bay and had activated the holographic Doctor. 

The Sick Bay aboard this starship has several beds, an office and very good lighting. The medical equipment is top notch and there are some pieces that I have never even seen in person because few hospitals can afford them, but of course Starfleet not leave anything out of the Sick Bay inventory, no matter the cost. Holmes stated my case, and how I would be of infinite more use then Mr. Paris who had little interest in medicine and who greatly preferred flying the ship to tending to the wounded.

Holmes' argument was logical enough to convince any Vulcan of my candidacy, and within the hour I had been officially installed as the doctor's personal trainee. There can be no better educator seeing as the Doctor has been programmed with all known medical knowledge of all federation planets as well as tidbits gathered from rivals. He is a walking medical encyclopedia and although I feel awkward working with a humanoid hologram, I could not ask for a better position. Holmes was clearly proud of himself and was about to exit the Bay when I told him to stop looking through Voyager's files on it's crew members life histories. I have never seen a man look so offended! Curling his lip in disgust he said 

“I have never bothered to do that, I don't have to.” before striding out in a huff of injured pride.

I don't know what he meant by that. He clearly must have hacked the Ship's logs to find my file and to read my history, how else would he have known about my 4 years of pre-med?

Thinking over this log I find it concerning that I seem to find Crewman Holmes more important news then the fact that I am now Jr. medical personnel in training...I don't know. One thing I do know however is that I doubt I have seen the last of him!

 

Personal log Stardate 48560.5

I am on a break from my internship in Med Bay, I haven't had a chance to look for Crewman Holmes, and I doubt he would spend his free time in communal areas, because if he was in the habit of doing so I would have seen him before I met him just the other day. These last few days have been very interesting, the Captain came to see how I was adapting to my new position and I told her I was a bit stunned but very grateful to Crewman Holmes for suggesting I make this change. She smiled and said she had heard a lot about Crewman Holmes, but that that was the first positive thing she had been told about him. I don't find that too surprising. I feel uncomfortable with the idea of knocking on his door, but since he seems to avoid the crew, it may be my only option.

Personal log Stardate 48562.8

Today I learned two things.

1) If a Fiakarian is going to go into labour run as far away as you can while also telling everyone else to run because Fiakarian babies are born Very hungry and will devour anything within reach including their parent, before turning to vegetarian diet and living for an average of 700 years in very zen-like villages, and in complete peace. All members of the species self-impregnates and dies in the same way their parent did. 

2) Crewman Holmes does not often come out of his rooms. The Second-in-Command and ex-Marquis Captain, Chakotay, has put Holmes on a private research assignment apparently for the safety and sanity of the entire crew.

One of those facts I find fascinating, and the other even more so. I wonder what private assignment he could be working on.

 

Personal Log Stardate 48570

I have had a very interesting last few days, somehow I managed to find the time to complete the lessons the Doctor prepared for me and ask Crewman Holmes out for coffee. I say it like it was easy but I spent a solid week as a nervous wreak trying to work up the courage. Normally I would simply join a person at the cafeteria table and begin to talk with them, but Holmes doesn't leave his rooms, at all. I see Ensign Hopkins dart in an out carrying various materials but Hopkins says he really knows nothing about Holmes other then the things he often requires are building supplies from Engineering. Apparently Chakotay has assigned Hopkins to be Holmes' personal errand boy so whatever he is working on must be important. This morning, after days of hesitation, I caught Hopkins on his way to Holmes' rooms carrying a small box, I said I was on my way to speak with the Crewman so I could deliver it. Hopkins looked at me suspiciously but handed it over and warned me to not jostle it.

I am not generally speaking a shy man, I have no problem flirting and picking people up at bars, but all my verbal skills failed me and all I managed to say after I handed over the box was “I was wondering if maybe later you'd like to have some coffee.” I am still cringing. Holmes over looked my awkwardness and after a soul searching stare simply said “yes” before returning to his work and asking “At 16 hours?” to which I agreed and left.

When I returned to my post at the Medical bay, the Doctor informed me that my heart-rate and temperature were abnormally high, I said was experiencing a perfectly normal human reaction to stress, and he looked at me as if disappointed in all non-holographic beings. To say my shift dragged on would be an understatement, but finally I was the lounge area seated in a far corner table with someone who was easily the most gorgeous person aboard the ship.

I wish I had recorded the conversation because I seem to be unable to recount all that he said but it was by far the most interesting conversation I have ever had. He said his name was Sherlock and then proceeded to tell me how he knew I had studied pre-med just from a nearly invisible stain on my left shoe. I had thought he had looked up my history, but no he simply has the remarkable ability to look at every detail about a person and use it to deduce the most likely facts about that individual. I pointed out one of the engineers seated at a table who I know, and Sherlock easily told me that Jensen had 3 sisters, a love of tennis, a repressed eating disorder and a phobia of spiders. I was amazed and I said as much; Sherlock seemed taken aback by my praise but flushed and picked another person to deduce. We spent 3 hours talking, and I learned that Sherlock has a brother who he doesn't like, and a love for dangerous experiments. From the little he said I understood that although he completed his basic training at starfleet academy, no research vessel was allowed anywhere near a planetoid in the neutral zone which he wanted to study so he left starfleet and proceeded to conduct some independent studies. It appears that while staying hidden in the neutral zone, he became involved in a small skirmish that introduced him to Chakotay who convinced him to join the Marquis crew. I suspect Sherlock's brother is high in the Starfleet chain of command, and Sherlock was happy to fight against the federation just to tar his brother's name.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

UNFINISHED FIC #2

Dystopia, all disabled people are left to die in asylums. Sherlock is blind and an asshole so he lost his manual knitting job or whatever due to his attitude and rots in prison he is 17. His life story is he is magical but hides it. He was infected with the virus in his preteens and his chemist father saved him by giving him the prototype for a vaccine but it was too late to save his eyes. Most magical people get sick and die, his father died before he could replicate the vaccine for himself. 

they are all O- blood types who are useless to society (apparently) so they are milked for their blood which is used to cure rich/powerful people from zombitus which can be sorta fixed with having all the blood in their body replaced every day.

John has ptsd, going deaf and his limp so he soon finds himself in there with Sherlock.  
Meets cellmates, attracted to the lonely Sherlock, touches him, and Sherlock starts, as suddenly his vision is flooded with what John sees(jw sees him)  
Johns ears are flooded with what Sherlock hears.  
Sherlock wants to know what John looks like but there are no mirrors and so nope.  
The longer they are together the farther away they can be without sherlock loosing John's sight and vise versa.

They break out of blood prison and spend days running fort to fort stealing food and stuff  
Goal is to arrive at Mycroft's Fortress where they will be cared for.

Minor magic, as most magic pple have been killed off by the virus.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------

The tall brick building stood alone several miles from what was left of London. H.M Prison in Sutton was a once reasonably attractive place—for a prison that is—but the years had not been kind to the brick structure, and so now the large majority of the complex had been blocked off. The wing that remained open was a three story tall and four sided building with a gloomy courtyard in the centre of it. Each floor had only one exit that lead to the courtyard, each floor had a separate door and only one door was open at a time allowing the inmates of that floor time outside. The three doors were less then 3 meters apart from each other and lined the whole of one side of the courtyard walls; while on the opposite wall stood a huge metal door which only opened to admit new prisoners and above it was a large clock.

It was that same door which swung open and allowed a blond man no more then 20 years of age wearing tattered jeans and carrying a backpack entered at gunpoint before a guard yelled instructions to the him and brought the massive metal door slamming shut.

The man looked at his new surroundings and forced back his tears. The courtyard was made up of fragmented cement that had moss and grasses growing in the ever widening gaps, along the walls were masses of ivy that wound up and around the many narrow windows where he could see several glinting eyes studying him. The windows were hardly wide enough to let a hand pass through, much less a human body. The door with the number 2 written on it clanked loudly and slowly swung open the man walked towards it gingerly peering in and seeing a grim set of stairs which were only lit by the fading rays of sunshine that slipped through the narrow windows. He entered, and the door locked behind him.

A pair of curious eyes met him as he reached the second floor of the prison, he looked around. The cells that were usually in these prisons had had their doors removed and so what was left was a single long hallway that outlined the courtyard with 6 open cells on every side. A boy no older then 10 grabbed his hand and silently lead him around two corners and past several occupied cells to a cell that had been entirely stripped except for the mattress and surprisingly clean duvet. The blond dug into his pocket and pulled out a mint which he gave to the boy who had lead him there. The boy who wore a ragged blue baseball cap smiled revealing a toothless pair of gums before turning and leaving.

Laying his knapsack on the relatively clean floor he looked around the tiny room. At the far back there was a sink, toilet and shower; a quick test proved the shower worked but neither the toilet nor the sink had flowing water, not a surprise really, it had been years since he had used a working toilet. A broken wooden stool was set at the foot of the bed and the remains of a small table were shoved underneath the bed. The cell was approximately 3 meters by 3 meters and had a comfortable amount of leg room. 

Something struck him on the back of the head and he spun around in surprise to see a larger boy, probably mid teens who had the demeanor of a man accustomed to being respected. 

“Are you ignoring me?” The boys lips said angrily.

“No! No I am not ignoring you, I'm deaf, I can't hear noise, I'm so sorry I didn't notice you.”

The boy's frown lighted and he gave what could almost have been a smile. “Lip reader?”

The blond nodded.

“Well then My name is Ruth and I am in charge here. Food arrives tomorrow at noon, if you need a toilet find a cell that has a working one, if anyone gives you trouble call for me or Jack, and if you cause trouble we will deny you your rations until you are so weak you can't cause any more trouble. Got all that?” Ruth asked and seeing the blond nod he took a permanent marker out from his shirt pocket.

“Whats your name?”

“John.”

Ruth stepped out of the cell and looked at the number 13 that was written above John's cell and crossing off the name Jared he wrote 'John' in its place.

Ruth gave him a nod and left

Ruth had barely been gone for a full minute before a sickly thin figure appeared in the corner of John's eye and tapped the wall asking for permission to enter. A bright smile and equally bright ginger hair greeted him.

“Hi, I'm Mike” The ginger said extending his hand.

“Hey, I'm John,” he replied before hesitating “Am I speaking too loudly?”

Mike looked confused for a second before understanding flooded his features “A bit yea, but it's okay. Where are you from?”

“London but I was working in Hampshire when they caught me.” John spoke at what he hoped was a proper volume.

Mike nodded sympathetically “At least they didn't just shoot you.”

John agreed.

Silence fell between them for a minute before John asked “What is Ruth's real name?”

Mike gave a snort “Ruth and Shirley made a bet against Sarah and Sally on the first floor that they could do more laps around the courtyard then they could. The prize was that the losers had to give the winners two days worth of rations. Sally is the leader of the first floor and much faster then she looks, Sarah is missing an arm and had a broken nose but still managed to beat our boys by 5 seconds. Jack—our second in command—disowned them for embarrassing us, and so Sally called out that they could be honorary first floor members, so of course they had to be given girly names. It's all in good fun, it gets pretty boring around here so these silly bets keep our minds off of what happens next. It has only been a month but I think everyone has forgotten that Bruce is Ruth's real name.”

“Ruth said the food arrives tomorrow at noon?” John asked.

Mike nodded “The door for the first floor unlocks at 8am and locks again at 10am, our door opens at noon but closes at 2pm, third floor gets from 4pm till 6pm. The food is in the courtyard when the door unlocks. Head inside as soon as the bell rings, you might not hear it but you'll see people heading in, if you get locked out then you will be shot.”

John grimaced “How long will I be here?”

The ginger seemed to lose any energy he possessed. “Most people are here for 6 to 12 months, it depends. Leaders like Ruth and Sally have been here for several years but only because they keep control on their floors, if a new prisoner proves to be better than them then the guards will take them away and let the new prisoner take their place so that rivalries don't appear. You look healthy so you might make the full year, I'm sick I don't know with what but once my blood begins to show signs of infection then they will replace me; that's what happened with Jared, the guy who was here before you, they took him away yesterday.”

John looked at the scrawny boy probably only a year or two younger then him who looked as if a breeze would knock him over and sighed “Where are the blood machines?”

Mike pointed towards the courtyard “Rain or shine you hook up your machine to a vein and let it bleed you dry. I'll show you how to do it tomorrow, you'll be machine 213, 2 for your floor and 13 for your cell.”

John nodded “It's getting too dark to read your lips,” he said “I'll see you tomorrow?”

Mike gave a tight smile and wished John a good night before turning down the hallway.

 

The bright stream of sunlight would have awoken John had he not been awoken rather cruelly by a nightmare 3 hours earlier.

“Great” he thought “First day in Transylvania and I barely slept at all.” not that that was uncommon, it was really part of the reason why he was here in the first place.

“I'll be using your shower.” a very loud voice said into his ear causing him to jump out from under the covers where he had been hoping that he might get an hour or two more of rest.

The dark haired boy said something but John was much too startled to read what he was saying.

“What?”

The boy smiled like a Cheshire cat who had just been served a generous saucer of cream. “I said that I was right, you are not completely deaf, not yet anyways. Just as I thought.”

John blinked hard and noticing the towel the boy carried he said “Scaring people shitless is not the best way to ask to use their shower.”

The boy's smile widened even more, and it was then that John's still foggy brain finally noticed the boy's eyes. They were completely white. There was no film nor any other sign of disease just a white canvas with no pupil nor an iris.

The boy seemed to have picked up on John's sudden stillness and groaned theatrically. “People keep telling me there is something off-putting about my eyes, but every time I look in a mirror I see nothing. Just pretend I have normal eyes and let me use your shower.”

John managed to tear his eyes away from the milky orbs and managed to catch the second half of the boy's speech.

“Sure, help yourself.”

The boy smiled “Thanks John.”

John stared at him as the boy started to strip “How do you know my name?”

The boy stopped halfway through removing a rather nice thick black sweater and turned to face John “I heard you talking to Mike yesterday, I'm in cell 14.”

“Oh.”

The sweater was thrown on the floor and the boy began to unbutton his trousers, before pausing and looking back up in John's direction. “I can hear your bowels from over here. My toilet is operational, you may use it.”

John looked down at himself and realized that the obnoxious dark haired boy was correct and pulling on some socks he slipped into cell number 14.

 

The cell was sparsely decorated with what appeared to be chemical formulas written on the walls, and a few plants growing from what appeared to be broken pieces of pottery and a plastic bag. Somehow the boy had managed to acquire two tables which were littered with countless objects, all cleaned and ranging from shoelaces to scalpels and sunglasses. Great his neighbor was a hoarder. Well at least if his table went missing he would know where to look.

The toilet did indeed flush, and John marveled for a few moments at how superior this toilet was to the holes he was accustomed to. When he returned to his room, the dark haired boy was dressed in a very nice dark purple sweater and tight fitting black jeans. 

“Where did you get such nice clothes?” John asked, feeling a tad envious.

The boy's mouth quirked an odd half smirk before the lips shaped the words “I know some people.”

“I know some people too, but they can't scavenge designer clothes.”

“Clearly they do not know how to scavenge properly then.” The boy huffed, before pausing and looking John over. “They don't know how to scavenge, but they do know how to farm...isn't that right?”

John squinted trying to make sure he had read correctly and that his brain hadn't hallucinated a mind reader.

“Hmm. You are from London, but you were away when the asteroid hit probably visiting family in the country considering that you don't appear to have suffered severe malnourishment. They taught you how to read and write during the years before the dust settled, and since your parents had died in London you stayed. Something caused you to leave about 5 years ago, possibly the 3rd Zombie outbreak, it must have killed your relatives because you haven't gone back. You returned to agriculture in Hampshire where you were in contact with dairy cows it was there when you rapidly lost your hearing, but something else happened later on and you were on the run when you were caught but luckily you knew your blood type was O- so they brought you here instead of shooting you as a useless deaf outsider with a pronounced limp and ptsd. 

“How do you know all that?” John asked his mouth agape.

“I asked Mike to describe you to me earlier this morning, he said you looked strong and with good proportions which suggests you are short due to genetics not hunger. You have a book in your bag that is of a medical nature, so you must be capable of reading, and the inscription in the inside says 'to Johnny from Auntie Jay' which means she was literate and as you must have been 8 in 1998 your reading skills must have been expanded by your extended family after the impact of that year. Your clothes all date to about five years ago going by the wear patterns, also the darning changes from tiny stitches to sloppy attempts to fix holes. With that information I assume that something happened in 2005 that forced you to pack a bag and move away, and it was in 2005 that the third outbreak occurred. As for Hampshire, I can smell the unique odor patterns in your clothes that can only come from Hampshire along with the smell of cow manure. Billy—the boy who lead you to your cell—observed that you looked at the door when it loudly unlocked when you first arrived it didn't move for several seconds before swinging open so you aren't completely deaf you can hear loud noises. Your lip reading is excellent but so is your spoken voice so the deafness is a new development but you have had time to learn lip reading. Something happened while you were there that gives you a limp when you are not under threat, like this morning going into my cell, but that disappears entirely while under threat like yesterday when you first arrived. You suffer from nightmares and that suggests you have ptsd which has been crippling in the past.”

“That is amazing! Absolutely amazing, how did you learn to do that?”

The tall skinny boy flushed and blinked his sightless eyes rapidly before muttering “My brother taught me.”

“I can't read your lips when you are muttering.” John said.

“My brother taught me.” The boy repeated. 

“You know all that about me, but I don't even know your name!”

“It's Sherlo—Shirley my name is Shirley.” 

“Oh right, you were the one who Mike mentioned yesterday then! Why do you still go by your honorary 1st floor name?”

Shirley smiled ruefully “Rules are rules. To maintain any sort of order in this floor everyone has to respect the rules. There are 20 boys on this floor, some of them lean towards violence and so to prevent a unpleasant death via a beating we follow 3 basic rules: the first one is that the leader can always change the rules, the second one is keep your word, and the third one is be polite. I was part of the bet that we lost so therefore I must uphold my agreement and accept the consequences. The rules are effective, I don't think I ever said 'please' nor 'thank-you' more than twice in my life before landing here, but you learn quick.” Shirley grimaced.

John was about to nod in agreement when Shirley's head jerked and he winced.

“What?”

“The sound of the first floor door being unlocked is very loud.”

John shrugged “I didn't hear it so it can't have been that loud.”

Shirley glared “My hearing is very sensitive.”

John wanted to ask exactly how sensitive it was since having him as his neighbor would mean he would have to be extra quiet while privately 'relieving stress' during the night, but Shirley had started to look over John's shoulder, so John turned around.

In the cell opening there stood a tall and lanky teenager with greasy hair and torn jeans. “Being nice to him are you?” his lips said.

Shirley bristled “Go away.”

The greasy haired boy looked at John “Shirley here is nice to everyone the first day they are here, but it won't last he's probably already searched through your bags for stuff for his collection of useless objects.”

Shirley simply glared, the whiteness of his eyes contrasting with the dark hair of his eyebrows.

“Don't trust him, he'll steal your stuff and then put the blame on someone else who will get punished.” 

“Fuck off Phillip.” Shirley spat taking a step forward.

John immediately stretched out his hand and grabbed Shirley's wrist. The words “Stop it” were half way out of his mouth when he noticed Shirley had gone completely rigid. John looked down at where his hand was holding Shirley's wrist in confusion before hearing a huff of laughter coming from Phillip. Wait how did he hear that huff of laughter? John froze staring at their hands until Shirley slowly turned to look at him, Phillip completely forgotten.

“John?” Shirley asked in astonishment, and for the first time in years John heard is own name being said.

“Whats wrong with you two pansies?” Phillip asked still standing there jeering.

Shirley didn't look away from John saying “Fuck off Phillip or shall I tell Jake about what really happened to the toilet paper?”

Phillip blanched and with a twitch turned and disappeared.

In a split second Shirley spun John around and pressed him hard against the wall “What the hell?” he asked, and saw his own mouth forming the words in the space where John stood.

“Wh—what? Whats happening?” John flailed around and pushing Shirley away. 

Contact broken, Shirley found himself looking at nothing, while John's world went silent.

The dark haired boy's lips formed the words “What the fuck?” before he blindly reached out and regained his grip on John's bare arm. His own face flooded his vision.

“I can hear.” John said stupidly before looking around wildly, “I Can Hear!” and suddenly Shirley fell against him as his vision swam. “Hey. Hey! You okay?”

Milky eyes looked up at him in confusion, “John, I am seeing what you are looking at.”

John's brow furrowed.

 

“Okay, so what you are saying is that when you touch me, you see what I see?”

“Precisely.” Shirley replied, looking down at their joined hands as they sat on John's cot. 

“How?”

“I can only assume it's a side effect of the asteroid strike.” Shirley looked back up at the space where John's voice was coming from “It is really weird talking to myself, the angles are all wrong not to mention the motion sickness everytime you move your head.”

John made an apologetic noise, sorry I'll try to stop.”  
“Hmm. Well anyways, it is a fair assumption that because I can see through your eyes, you can hear only through my ears.”

“Do we have any way of testing it?” John asked

Shirley shook his head “I'll think about it. What abilities did you gain during the asteroid strike?”

“I-I can sometimes heal people, never myself but I can heal others. You?”

“The virus gave me the ability to hear things, if I make physical contact with someone I can hear what they were thinking about in the present and in the very recent past.”

John flushed and immediately withdrew his hand, allowing his world fall silent in exchange for some privacy.

“And that right there is why I don't usually tell people that.”

John gave a rueful smile “You really can't blame me.”

Shirley's mouth twisted “Don't worry everyone thinks that when they see my eyes.”

“How long have you been here?” John asked awkwardly changing the subject.

“5 months. I went blind a few weeks after my abilities manifested themselves, and like most people the fever that followed the asteroid strike nearly killed me, but my father was part of a lab team that was on the verge of discovering a cure and he injected me with a prototype of the medication. He wanted to observe the effects of the injection before mass production, but he caught the virus and died before another batch could be produced. To my mother's surprise the injection worked and I recovered, but it wasn't long before she died too.”

“Oh.” John said sadly, “I wish your father had had time to report his findings.”

Sherlock nodded “no one was expecting the asteroid, my father was too distracted with studying the abilities that the asteroid gifted us with to notice the virus that came with it. My brother disappeared a week before I was taken to work as a disabled slave in a textile factory, I first thought he had been taken to one of the new colonies because he was resistant to the virus, but I found out that no, he ran away to found his own isolated colony. The bastard.”

“He just left you? You were blind!”

“It wasn't logical to bring me, it would have lessened his chances of escaping capture.”

“That's cold.”

“Mycroft would have expected the same from me.”

John thought about the weeks he had spent trying to save Harry to no avail, and shuddered to think what kind of person would have abandoned their sibling, no matter how annoying they were. “Would you have abandoned your brother?”  
Shirley gave him a vicious smile “No. I would have killed him.”

 

“Hey you two! Time for your 'gift to the superior race' ” Mike called from the door way, causing the two boys to look up.

“Urg. Why is it always raining when we have to go outside?” Shirley groaned as he stood up “If the rich people were so 'superior' they wouldn't need our precious blood to sustain themselves. They really should just accept that they are dying and stop the blood transfusions, or at least take blood from the non-crippled survivors.”

“So the stories are true then?” John asked “Infected people can survive on transfusions from the immune?”

“Survive is the right term.” Shirley said “they trade all they can find for some of our blood, one transfusion gives them approximately 30 lucid hours.”

John groaned “I really should have run faster.”

“No point in regretting it now.” Mike said, “Come on lets go.”

Out in the courtyard the boys all lined up near the blood letting machines, and with a vein exposed they each took turns. If Mike had looked sickly before, he looked much worse now, and two boys came to help steady him.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

FIC #3

If You Ask Me To (Reworked into Just a scribble on your wrist) This was the original idea for that fic.

 

In a world where everyone projects their thoughts and feelings via a constant glow of varying colours and intensities that envelopes every human, Sherlock Holmes can't emit an aura nor can he sense auras like everyone else seems to be able to. Auras project emotions and feelings. Shields exist and people have learned to project false emotions but its a tricky business and generally people can only see auras because people rein in their projecting because its socially unacceptable to project.

“And your name is?” Asked Detective Inspector Lestrade 

“Why does it matter?” Sighed the recently awoken man lying on the cot in the cell

“It matters because the cocaine you took does not cause auras to disappear, and that means that there was something that went undetected during our extensive lab tests, and as you can imagine, that interests us.”

The DI who like everyone else had an almost imperceptible cloud that emanated from every cell in his body. He was projecting only a pale purple cloud of annoyance and superiority as was normal for anyone in such an office. He had been on his way back from a crime scene in west London when he had glanced down an alley way during a red light only to see a leg sticking out from the shadows of an old house. Naturally he had stationed the car and gone to go make sure that it wasn't a dead body (even if that would spice up his boring day) As luck would have it, the body was unconscious and curiously free of the brown glow that always coated the bodies of people who had taken drugs. The DI would have called for an ambulance, but the man regained consciousness for a minute or two before glaring at the police officer and blinking out of consciousness once more. So instead Lestrade had called for Sally, and the both of them had managed to shove the limp, thin body into the back of the police car.

The dark haired man slowly brought himself to a sitting position and drawled “So you are saying that it doesn't matter.” 

“It matters to the half dozen specialists who have been clawing at my door since one of my officers mentioned it to one of them.” Lestrade sighed

“They will be disappointed,” said the man “I didn't take anything other then cocaine. My 'lack of aura' is not a side effect of some mysterious drug.”

“What do you mean?” asked Lestrade 

“Oh For God's Sake. I want to leave. Let Me Out.” The man demanded.

“No. You are here on the charge of using illegal drugs. Name?”

“FINE. The name is Sherlock Holmes.”

“Well Sherlock Holmes, you--”

“I get a phone call. Call the contact that is saved under 'The Queen' on my phone. You make the call, because I certainty do not want to speak with him.” Sherlock interrupted.

“Are you not interested in hearing about the restrictions that-”

“Call the number.”

“Fine,” Lestrade huffed and walked off, his aura giving out waves of annoyance, that went totally undetected by the tall, thin man.

 

Mike Stamford was infuriating. The man clearly did not have anything better to do with his life other then bother other people. He was however occasionally useful, Doctors tended to have a lot of information about the various human illnesses and their symptoms memorized, and it saved a few gigabytes of absurdly expensive cellphone data to just ask Mike about the likelihood of a migraine being initiated by a fractured index finger.

“Where were you last week?” Mike asked in his usual good natured manner. “There was a body that Molly wanted you to look at but she says you never responded to her texts.”

Sherlock hung his coat up behind the lab door “There was a pressing matter with my Land lord, which unfortunately took up quite a lot of my time.” Sherlock grimaced at the thought of the regrettable explosion which had not gone over well with the cranky old man with an internet porn addiction who insisted that his property was not to be used as a chemical laboratory.

“Looking for a new place?” asked Mike.

“Not anymore.” 

Mike watched as the tall man shoved aside a pile of petri dishes and made room for a ziplock bag full of what may have been molars.

“So you found a place then?”

“Yes, an old acquaintance of mine recently had a flat in her building vacated so she offered it to me.” Sherlock extracted one of the teeth and held it up to the light.

“What part of London?”

“Baker street.”

“Baker street? Must be expensive.”

“She gave me a special offer. It was the only two bedroom flat to be found at such a price, I fully intend to turn the second bedroom into a lab.” Sherlock replied then emptied out the ziplock bag and began sorting the small mountain of teeth.

“Two bedrooms? You could try to find a flatmate. Because unless she gave you half price, I am sure the payments are still substantial.”

Sherlock looked up with such a scathing look of 'What is wrong with you' that if Mike were unused to it, it would have been enough to kill him. However Sherlock had been giving him similar looks for years, and it was one of those things you can built an immunity against over time.

“Who in their right mind would want me for a flat mate?” Asked Sherlock, almost daring him to say that 'someone might not mind about the total lack of aura' that put almost everyone off. Mike had been extremely cautious around Sherlock the first time they met. However his medical curiosity and his easy going nature had overcome his initial concern and he now tended to start 'small talk' and ask him to deduce various of his students; which took Sherlock by surprise but in a way it was pleasant to have someone to notice if he didn't appear for over a week. Victor had been like that, but no Mike wasn't Victor. Sherlock shook off the thought, silently cursing his inability to delete the memory of that bastard.

“You may have a point, if you keep the things Molly gives you in your fridge.”

“Where else would I keep them?” Sherlock sniffed.

“Well you never know, there might be someone desperate enough to put up with it.” Mike said with a laugh.

“If I do find someone then the lab will have to be kept in the kitchen, and that may not be too sanitary.”

“I see the problem there,” Mike smiled and watched Sherlock who had suddenly become completely absorbed in a rather unremarkable molar.

“I will leave you too it then. I have a lecture in about half an hour. Shame though, its a nice day and I would prefer to go for a walk.” 

And at Sherlock's complete lack of response, Mike left the man to his business.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

FIC #4

 

“Don't Shoot!” Sherlock begged his voice almost hysterical “Just please don't-” The sound of the gun firing silenced Sherlock's pleas. Across the room John crumpled. 

In a fraction of a second Sherlock whipped the metal bar he was holding at the criminal's head and leaping across the room to the prostrate and barely conscious man he grabbed the greasy strands of hair muttering “Pray that he is alive.” he smashed the concussed skull into the cold cement floor and not even bothering with standing he immediately threw himself towards John.

“JohnJohnJohnJohn.” Sherlock's hands where everywhere desperately trying to locate the spot where the bullet had struck his eyes were bleary and he found it excessively difficult to even think with the mantra of 'JohnJohnJohn!' being the only thing running through his mind. And then John's hand came up and grasped his shoulder.

“John?” His voice cracked and his shuddering intake of breath was louder then John's shushing sounds.

“Sherlock I am okay, just breath.” 

“I-Can't-I-Can't-I-Ca--” Sherlock choked out coughing and shaking.

John sat up sharply and facing the detective placed both his hands firmly on his husband's shoulders and pushed him to a sitting position. “Relax, breathe with me. In...Out....In....Out. Sherlock focus on me. In...and Out....In....Out.” Sherlock's breaths became more even and his gasps quieted as John kneeled in front of him at arms length gently massaging his shoulders and occasionally using his hands to wipe away tears. With one last noisy breath Sherlock dropped his head onto John's shoulder and pressed his nose into the warm skin of John's neck taking in the smell of deodorant and soap that was distinctively John's smell.

“Is he alright?” John asked indicating Ross.

“Moderate to severe brain trauma. Possible permanent damage.” Sherlock murmured a few moments later without lifting his head.

“Jesus Sherlock.”

Sherlock lifted his head and looked at John. “He shot at you. If I had been thinking clearly I would have done much worse.” Their faces were only inches apart, and Sherlock couldn't stop himself from leaning in and kissing John.

“Sherlo--” John tried but the detective was already leaning backwards onto the floor pulling John on top of him. 

“Why did you fall?” Sherlock asked when they parted for air.

John let go of Sherlock's head and sat up. “He was a very good shot. I felt the bullet graze my hair if I hadn't faked getting hit he would have shot again and very likely would have hit me.” John smiled at the red eyed and still pale features of Sherlock who seemed to be completely drained. “I figured you'd take him down the seconds it took for him to realize I had fallen.” 

Sherlock gave a short 'hmm' and John got up to go check on the still figure that hadn't moved. “Well he is breathing so at least we won't need your brother to cover up a murder. We should call an ambulance.”

“No. Let him rot.” 

“Sherlock.” John said disapprovingly.

The dark haired man managed to sit up. “John he tried to kill you! I don't- I don't even know what I would have done if he- if he---” Sherlock seemed incapable of finishing his sentence so John went and embraced him while he dialled 999.

**Author's Note:**

> I am not going to finish any of these but if you want to write them then go ahead. I feel that a few of them have potential. Excuse the bad grammar, but I put as much effort into spellchecking these as Moffat and Gatiss put into all of S4..ie none-what-so-flippin-ever.


End file.
